She was Beautiful

We have a daughter
called poetry—

quiet with little fuss—

looking up
& molding us as god.

Her small verbs
span indifferent cities,

aloof mountain ranges,

& the hours of
blank faced clocks
between sunrises.

She knows there are
worse things than dark—

the black waters of the mind
are scarier.

We have created her
from love,
pressed & dried bouquets
& willow sticks—
things only we
could make a life from.

One day we'll wake up
as different people
but the magic
of a shared procreation
will keep us tied—

wanting to see each other's
newly patchworked faces.

We have a daughter
called poetry—
holding our hands together
& keeping the spaces & cracks

from collapsing our lives.